


Tumble

by oh_stars_im_tired



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Dragons, Eventual Romance, F/F, Gals being pals, Hatred, Prejudice, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2020-10-12 18:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20568560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_stars_im_tired/pseuds/oh_stars_im_tired
Summary: Shauna Vayne has been hunting the creatures of the night for years, though none of them have been as esteemed and well-protected as Demacia's dragon-born general. But Vayne is known for being reckless and relentless; nothing will dissuade her from going for the kill.





	1. Conviction

After a week of tracking, Shauna Vayne had found her target: a lop rabbit.

It held its small frame tall, without any fear of being hunted. Its furry copper body would be a delicious morsel to any wolves or vultures that spotted it, but she knew this rabbit was the predator. Rax demons could take any form they could fathom, and this one was clever. What better way to trick young children into approaching you than to camouflage one’s self as a sweet little rabbit?

For days, the monster had been terrorising the outskirts of Demacia. Guards had recovered the mauled, organ-less corpses of children from the patch of forest bordering a quaint village. She had heard too many mothers wail at the sight of their babes, fathers sobbing onto their child’s pale dead faces to let this creature live any longer. Finally, she had her prey in sight.

Vayne kept her breaths shallow and steady as two laughing children skipped around the forest, waving sticks as though they were swords. Naturally, they stopped when they saw the lop. “Don’t scare it!” the boy, no older than seven, loudly whispered to his friend, who nodded her head rapidly.

They took a delicate step towards it, blissfully unaware of the threat before them. Vayne notched the string on her wrist-crossbow. The demon hopped forwards. She loaded a silver-tipped bolt. The children gasped in delight. She took aim.

Then, the petite rabbit began to morph into a ball of bulging, slimy, dark flesh. Limbs started to sprout from the monster’s bulbous torso, convulsing and dripping. Vayne could faintly hear the children screaming in sheer terror, scrambling away for their short-lived lives, but she kept her gaze locked on the top of the demon’s transforming figure.

A second later, its head began to grow from the sludge. Although Vayne couldn’t see its eyes (if it had any) she could see the head’s flesh part to form a massive jaw, wide and ready to feast.

Perfect.

Vayne lowered her arm ever so slightly, until the bolt’s trajectory was in line with the middle of the demon’s mouth. With a flick of her wrist, the bolt whistled through the warm forest air, piercing her prey. The satisfying hiss of silver against its flesh made her smirk.

As the demon howled, paralysed in agony, she rose from her hiding spot and sauntered over to her victim. Ignoring the crying children, Vayne made her way around to take a better look at the slimy bastard. “Huh, you do have eyes,” she muttered to herself.

A second bolt through the eye put the thing out of its misery.

Vayne turned on her heel to face the children. “Go home, tell your village that there won’t be any more deaths,” she ordered sternly. Coddling was never her speciality. “Oh, and while you’re at it, remind your parents they’re damn stupid for letting you outside.”

They nodded slowly, tears in their doe-like eyes, and ran away as fast as their little legs could carry them.

Not before long, the thrill of the hunt subsided, and Vayne felt numb once again.

* * *

As usual, the Silverwing was bustling with inebriated life barely an hour after the sun had set. A drunkard staggered out of the tavern’s doors to hurl into a nearby bush, leaving the wood ajar, filling Vayne’s ears with slurred jovial singing. The stench of ale, piss and vomit assaulted her sinuses.

Home sweet home.

She slipped past the vomiting man and waded through the tables of patrons, beelining for the bar. The bartender finished pouring a pint for a customer before spotting her. “Shauna, how’s it going?” he hollered above the raucous.

“I’ll have the usual, Damien.” she replied dismissively. He raised an eyebrow and went to find the keg of their strongest beer. Vayne let out a sigh as she relaxed onto her stool.

Damien returned with her pint just as a fight started behind her. She flipped him a gold coin. Before he could question the sum, she said, “To cover whatever they break.” He grinned in appreciation.

“So, what’s got you all pissed?” he asked, ignoring the ongoing brawl.

Vayne took a swig of her beer. Bitter, unpleasant – just what she needed. “Found the child-killer. It’s dead,” she briefly explained. “Now I can focus on my biggest problem.”

Damien huffed and grabbed himself a stool. “You’ve been talking about that for weeks. What’s so important that you can’t stop bloody thinking about it?” She gulped down another mouthful.

“Boy trouble?” he joked, and she rolled her eyes.

“One of the generals of the Great City is a dragon,” she began. “General Shyvana. I’ve heard she’s close to the prince, so killing her is gonna be a pain. But she’ll turn on Demacia eventually – all monsters do. I just need to find a way of―”

“Bloody hell, Shauna, you’re mad,” Damien cut her off, wide-eyed. “That’s bordering on treason. Besides, she’s helping to protect Demacia, and if she’s close to Prince Jarvan then she must have done something worthy of his respect.”

Vayne swirled the beer in her mug. “They’re all the same, Damien. She’s a threat.”

He grabbed her pint and poured it on the floor. Vayne glared at him, about to question his decision, but he stopped her. “You’re not thinking straight, and you’re just about sober. Any more and you’ll actually storm into the Great City tonight and make a stupid move, get yourself arrested, and tomorrow your head’ll be on a damn spike,” he hissed.

She got up from her stool in a far worse mood than when she first sat down. “I’ll go for some fresh air then. Sober me up. Then I’ll come up with a plan, kill the bastard, and you can thank me when you realise how much safer you are without a dragon in the military.” With that, she turned to leave the tavern.

“Alright, you arrogant bitch,” called his voice from behind her.

Shauna one, Damien zero.

* * *

Every walk she went on always led back to her childhood home. It had been years since she had lived the privileged life of a Demacian noble child, back when she was happy. The manor was once vibrant and warm. Now it was gaunt and unloved. She hated it, but she always came back.

Vayne jammed a bolt into the front door and stepped inside. She choked at the lingering smell of her parent’s bodies; she had buried her mother and father when she was twenty, four years after their lives had been snatched away by a sadistic enchantress. The stench of death hadn’t budged after the hours she spent scrubbing blood and rot out of the floorboards.

Trying not to gag, she removed her crossbow from her wrist and set it down on a table by the door. It was then that she noticed a pile wax-sealed slips of paper at her feet. She picked the top one up – by the lack of dust, it was clearly recently delivered – and made her way to the kitchen to find a match.

Ten years ago, Vayne knew the manor’s kitchen like the back of her hand. In the dark with a vague recollection of where her mother used to store necessities, it took her a good few minutes to find a candle and match. She jumped up and sat on the table, grimacing as her knees clicked from kneeling in the forest earlier, and lit the candle.

Before reaching for a bolt to open the seal, she took a closer look at it. Her eyebrows furrowed as she traced the engraved lines in the wax. The candlelight illuminated none other than the Demacian royal seal.

It was easy for Vayne to forget that she was the head of her household ever since her parents died. Hell, she hoped she’d been assumed to be dead along with her mother and father, but there are military spies all over Demacia. The letter was, unfortunately, for her. She sighed and sliced open the seal with the tip of her bolt.

“_Lady Shauna Vayne,_

_It is with delight that we invite you to our palace in the Great City of Demacia to rejoice in the success of our kingdom. The noble houses have worked tirelessly to keep the kingdom safe and prosperous. King Jarvan III wishes to congratulate you all in person for your efforts towards the kingdom, and to reward you with an evening banquet and entertainment. We would be honoured for you to attend._

_Be dressed to the nines. A carriage will arrive at dusk on the first day of the summer months to transport you to the capitol._

_In great anticipation,_

_Prince Jarvan IV_”

Ordinarily, the thought of such an event would mentally drain her. But this time, during the final week of spring, a fire kindled within Vayne.

After all, wherever the prince went, his generals were obliged to follow.


	2. Fitting In

Boredom always led Shyvana to the same desolate alcove of the training grounds. Her duties didn’t extend as far as the other generals’ did: overseeing the raptor squadrons’ training was pointless, since they wouldn’t care for her input on their technique; patrol was out of the question due to her heritage. She wasn’t Demacian. Her subordinates made it clear that her position in the military was purely honorary.

_Half-breed._

Shyvana clawed open a dummy with her gauntlets, paying no attention to its straw guts spewing onto the stone floor. She struck it again, this time at the knee, picturing one of her more bigoted comrades as the figure collapsed forwards. Swiftly, she grabbed the dummy by its limp arm mid-fall, spun it around, and tore its neck open with her teeth. Dead.

Nothing compared to the exhilaration of a fight. The thrum of adrenaline through her veins, the deafening pound of her heart against her chest, the stench of sweat and blood and steel―

“There you are,” called a deep, masculine voice from behind her, interrupting her violent fantasy. Her bitterness had consumed her once again. Shyvana sighed, allowing herself to be grounded, before turning to face her addresser.

Garen Crownguard, one of Demacia’s finest soldiers, stood tall in his armour, the Crownguard family crest glimmering from the faint streak of sunlight striking it. He was the face of the Dauntless Vanguard, an exemplar that young boys and girls all aspired to be.

Shyvana remembered that her mouth was full of straw.

He chuckled as she promptly spat out the dummy’s jugular, earning a glare from the half-dragon. Composing herself, she glanced down at the tatters of her opponent. “I was peckish,” she joked, and Garen snorted.

“I pity any fool who makes you hungry, then,” he said, taking the edge off her embarrassment.

She offered a small smile. “I appreciate my method of fighting is unorthodox―”

Garen cut her explanation short. “If you’re going to apologise for being one of the best soldiers this nation has to offer, spare me. Dragon or not, you are Demacian.”

Shyvana exhaled a relieved breath. Unlike a depressing sum of her military comrades, Garen wasn’t discriminant of her heritage. He respected anyone with Demacia’s best interests at heart, and with an unwavering sense of justice. Her uneven lilac skin didn’t repulse him.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she tried to change the subject. “I’m assuming I am needed somewhere. You aren’t exactly one for small talk.”

“Indeed. Prince Jarvan requests your presence at his study. The reason, though…”

Shyvana raised an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“I can’t promise you’ll like it.”

* * *

Vayne hated white. She thought the colour was too high maintenance, too pristine… Not to mention it did nothing to conceal blood splatters.

Naturally, Demacian nobility traditionally wore white.

As little as she cared for etiquette, she knew she had to blend in with the other nobles. The palace in the Great City was undeniably the most secure building in Demacia; anything conspicuous would be alerted to the guards immediately, and that’d be too much hassle for a swift assassination. She’d have to play the chameleon.

Hence, Vayne stared at her deceased mother’s wardrobe in frustration.

“None of this is practical,” she muttered, toying with the fabric of a flowing skirt. She tossed the skirt to the floor, along with the few dark-coloured garments dotted about the closet. Anything sheer quickly joined the pile, followed by anything that felt too heavy. “Shit, this dress is worth more than my house…” She picked up a pale gown adorned with gold and crystals, glistening in the afternoon glow.

“Nope.” Thus, it joined the discards.

After minutes of tearing into the vast closet, she stumbled across some white leggings and a long sleeveless tunic that looked somewhat practical. She tugged at the tunic’s fabric; not too loose, completely opaque. Her weapon would be completely hidden from view if she strapped it to her thigh under the tunic.

Grinning, Vayne stuffed the garments into a sack, along with the letter from the Lightshield royals. She returned to the manor’s door, not caring for the other letters strewn across the floor, and began her trek back to the humble shack she called home. In two days, the dragon would be dead – all she needed was the perfect plan.

* * *

“You’re _ordering_ me to attend a party?”

The sun had set some hours ago, leaving Jarvan’s office illuminated by a few candles alone. Shyvana leaned against a bookcase, staring at the prince with utter confusion. “Why, was the guest list short of a few drag―”

“I am _requesting_ you accompany me to the banquet as one of my most trusted generals,” Jarvan sighed, having known this would be her reaction. He leaned forward on his plush chair, resting his elbows on the desk in front of him as he tried to reason with the temperamental woman. “This is a celebration for those who dedicate their lives to protecting and serving this nation. You are no exception to this, Shyvana. All you have to do is eat, relax and occasionally introduce yourself to the odd nobleman.” He pinched the bridge of his nose when Shyvana wrinkled hers in disgust.

“And why am I not attending as a guard? I pledged my life to the crown – to you – and you’re telling me I have to sit on my ass and mingle?”

“Lady Sona Buvelle will be performing―”

“Who?”

Another sigh. “Look, Ana, you spend every day training and fighting for Demacia without a modicum of respect from the majority of your peers.” Jarvan gestured towards a chair for her to sit. She did not. “I want you to feel like the Demacian you are, for you to indulge in this celebration with the rest of this country’s greatest assets.”

Shyvana’s resolve softened momentarily. The thought of being regarded as a human was oh so tempting… But it could never happen. She leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to come up with a compromise, trying to block out the deafening flickering of the candles that reminded her of her species, her powers…

“...Well, Ana?”

_Get a grip_, she scolded herself. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face her superior. “I will attend in full armour, not one of those ridiculous gowns that court ladies wear.” Her tone was firm. Jarvan knew this was non-negotiable.

“Of course, what you wear isn’t an issue―”

“I’m not finished.”

“…Do go on,” he bit back the urge to let out an exasperated breath.

“I refuse to engage in conversation with noblemen. And if I see anyone acting suspiciously I will resume my post as a general. Your safety is my priority.” Shyvana raised her eyebrows expectantly, waiting for the prince’s response – and she was prepared to argue if he had complaints.

Jarvan smiled and nodded. “As you wish.” _Good answer_.

“Then I’ll see you two evenings from now. Am I excused?” He nodded and waved his hand at the door. Shyvana dipped her head respectfully and exited the office, rubbing her temple in annoyance. In the corridor outside the candlelit room, Garen stood with his brow raised in shock. “Problem, Crownguard?” Shyvana grumbled.

He chuckled. “You are the only person in this nation who would get away with talking to His Highness like that.”

* * *

Wrist-bolt launcher firmly strapped to inside of her thigh. Six bolts: three tucked by her weapon, the other three disguised as pins in her hair. Dagger wedged in her left boot.

Vayne was ready.

* * *

To Shyvana’s dismay, the remaining days before the celebration flew by. While servants scurried about making the palace pristine as a diamond, Shyvana took out her dread on an armoury’s worth of training dummies.

Naturally, walking into the ballroom, she was shocked by how different it looked to the usually white, mundane room. A rainbow of floral arrangements were dotted about the room, splashing vibrancy across the pale marble walls. Delicate glass sculptures hung from the ceiling, reflecting the candlelight, leaving prismatic specks of colour lingering on the freshly pressed drapes. Two tables littered with delicacies stood at each side of the enormous room (and the smell – gods, the _smell_ – of the food made Shyvana nearly drool) each topped with bottles upon bottles of expensive wines. One corner of the room was sectioned off with a rope of flowers, where a lady with peculiar blue hair stood, gracefully plucking the strings of an etwahl. The whole environment radiated luxury; it was strange for a dragon from the humblest of beginnings.

Not to mention how the guests were dressed: white silks from across Valoran, jewellery of gold and Shuriman gemstones, and the women’s hairs were styled so intricately atop their heads that a gust of wind might have ruined them.

“I feel naked,” Shyvana hissed under her breath to Jarvan, hardly blending in with her stark red armour. She subconsciously fiddled with her gauntlets, eyes darting from nobleman to nobleman, and she felt herself begin to sweat. If only she had worn her helmet to hide under.

Jarvan gave her a nudge and a smirk. “Well, what was it you said… Ah, yes, that these women dress in ‘ridiculous gowns’.” If she wasn’t in a room full of those who would apprehend her on sight for doing so, Shyvana would have punched him.

A moment later, a serving girl approached them with a tray of wine glasses, her nose wrinkling as she looked at Shyvana. Promptly, the girl turned to the prince with a respectful curtsey, offering with a sweet smile, “A drink, Your Highness? Wine made from the grapes of Kumungu, two hundred years old.” Jarvan thanked her and took a glass, offering it to Shyvana.

“I’m alright,” she bluntly replied before seeing the serving girl’s eyes widen with outrage. She suddenly remembered where she was. “But thank you for your generous offer, Prince Jarvan,” she promptly added, desperately wanting to roll her eyes at the girl’s snotty guffaw.

When she excused herself to offer beverages to the neighbouring trio of guests, Shyvana could have cried with relief. _That’s enough social interaction for this evening_.

Jarvan chuckled. She glared.

“Ah, I see Garen’s found his sister amongst the crowd. Let me introduce you to her, the two of you have similar predicaments, plus she’s a lovely person,” he said, guiding her with his hand towards the siblings.

“When’s the wedding?”

“_Shyvana_.”

“Right, right, I should have some respect.” Her smirk was more prominent than the huge chandelier hanging from the ballroom’s centre.

Garen spotted the two approaching and smiled. His sister curtsied politely. “Your Highness,” she said.

“Luxanna, it’s a pleasure to see you.” Jarvan gently took the Crownguard’s hand and kissed it, earning an irritated look from Garen. “I am honoured to introduce my most trusted general, Shyvana,” he gestured to the steel-clad woman trying not to laugh at the expression on Garen’s face. She coughed indignantly.

“Nice to meet you, miss Crownguard,” she said with an awkward bow. Luxanna simply gave a beaming smile in return. _How can someone be this happy?_

The three nobles began chatting while Shyvana stood silently, regretting her decision to turn down alcohol. After a minute she slipped away through the crowd, eyeing up the tower of savoury pastries atop a table. “Please tell me that’s salmon,” she whispered to herself, nearly salivating. Alas, the tides were turned against her. A servant came and collected the tray and began walking about, offering the treats to guests. “Fuck me,” she grumbled.

As she watched the tower disappear longingly, her eyes drifted to the first figure who took one. The lady was clad in a modest tunic, nothing fancy, and she idly spoke to an older man, taking a sizeable gulp of wine. But as she swallowed, the volume of wine in her glass remained unchanged. Shyvana continued to stare at the woman for a moment, watching her supplement conversation for her drink, yet the glass remained full. She wasn’t drinking it.

A wealthy noblewoman in a safe, guarded environment was pretending to drink an extremely expensive beverage. Something felt off.

Shyvana’s eyebrows furrowed as she made her way back to the Crownguards. She made eye contact with Garen a few metres away, cocking her head backwards, gesturing for him to come with her. He promptly excused himself and followed her to a corner of the ballroom where the food table was clearly visible.

“I think someone’s here to assassinate the Prince,” she whispered. Garen opened his mouth to object, but she cut him off.

“There’s a lady wearing a white tunic who spent a good chunk of a conversation pretending to drink her wine. Why would she pretend? The old man couldn’t try to take advantage of her if she was inebriated with this many guards around, and if she’d sworn off alcohol she wouldn’t have a glass in the first place. She’s keeping her wits about her.” Shyvana turned to look behind at where she was a barely a minute ago. Her stomach dropped. “Shit, she’s gone.”

Garen took a steady breath, now believing her, and pointed towards a small door by the area. “I doubt she would have left through the main entrance. If she’s plotting something she would have left through a side door. That one leads to the washrooms. Keep tailing her, I’ll alert the guards and bring the prince to a safer location.” Shyvana nodded and bee-lined for the door.

After meandering through the crowd and reaching the door, her brisk walk became a run. She ruled out checking the washrooms – too obvious a hiding place – and continued down the long corridor. Every room she passed she checked for scratch marks and out of place furniture. Eventually she reached one of the palace’s libraries; she knew it would be a nightmare to check, but she had to. For Jarvan.

She scoured the floor for loose books before dashing to the ladder, scaling it with reckless speed for a birds-eye view of the library. It was as pristine as ever. Not a single thing out of place.

“Shit.” Shyvana jumped down and headed towards the library’s terrace. It was unfurnished, but the woman could have used it to climb to another level of the palace. Without hesitation, she kicked the glass doors down, destroying the beautiful artwork stained on them. The terrace floor had no visible scratch marks, just fragments of shattered glass. She brushed the glass aside with her foot to peer over the edge of the balcony, hoping to find evidence of a rough landing.

Then came the sharp whistle of an arrow.


	3. Assassination

Shyvana’s enhanced hearing allowed her to step to the side just before the bolt could pierce her skull. Her head turned towards the direction of the sound, causing the bolt to graze her ear. A blinding pain shot through the left side of her head, and she let out an agonized shriek. Silver. It had to be.

Regaining her senses, Shyvana swiftly rolled to her right, carefully hiding the weaknesses in her armour. Another bolt soared by, missing her by a hair. She quickly turned to where the silver pierced the stone of the balcony floor, deducing from the angle that it came from slightly further left than the last one. Without hesitation, she blindly lunged towards the assassin.

* * *

“Fuck,” Vayne hissed through gritted teeth, tumbling to the right – away from the corner where the balcony met the wall. _I never miss. How did it__―_

The monster crashed into the balcony, the sheer momentum causing the marble to crack. She knew the armour on her prey was going to be an issue, but she hadn’t anticipated how much it weighed. Less time to reload, more time needed for dodging. One blow from those gauntlets and she’d be incapacitated.

Swiftly, she rolled away from the cracked marble, slotting another silver bolt into her crossbow. Unlike in her usual fights, Vayne had no opportunity to aim; she had to shoot blind, miraculously finding her way through the dragon’s armour. Oh, this would be _fun_.

Angling her wrist upwards, she let the bolt fly, but the dragon simply cocked its head to the side. The bolt narrowly missed the lilac, scaled flesh of its neck. Adrenaline flooding her veins, she reached towards her up-do to retrieve the final bolt she had stored for easy access. In her rush, her hair fell out of place, falling into her eyes. Shit. Shit shit _shit_. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t fucking see and she was already disadvantaged and the air howled as the monster took a swing at her but she couldn’t _fucking see_.

Instinctively, Vayne stepped backwards, avoiding the dragon’s fist but tripping in the process. She dropped her bolt and braced herself, taking a knee to the abdomen in the process. The steel of the monster’s knee guards shot debilitating pain through her core, but she couldn’t lose focus.

She had one last trick up her sleeve – it was a gamble, a stupid and reckless gamble, yet she had no choice.

In an instant, Vayne dropped to the floor, rolling to the left of the dragon, backed against the balcony. During her tumble, she reached for the dagger she kept in her boot, lunging her other hand towards the dragon’s braids for leverage. But the monster was smart. Vayne grunted in pain as the dragon stood on her loose hair, preventing her from finding her feet. Panicked, she frantically scanned for a chink in the dragon’s armour. The knee. Grinning, she plunged her silver dagger into her prey’s knee, relishing in the anguished howl released into the night. Warm blood trickled down her hand as she yanked the dagger out of the joint. She tried to kick the monster down, weakening it for the killing blow, yet it stood tall.

With a demonic roar, the dragon twisted around towards her, applying further pain to her scalp. Its eyes were a stark amber, slit-like pupils dilated with fury. Seconds later, it breathed fire.

Vayne lost her grip on the dagger as agony engulfed her right arm, the smell of burning flesh filling her nostrils. She let out an uncharacteristically pathetic wail as she looked at her blistering wound, wondering if it would be her last image before the dragon struck her down.

To her surprise, the finishing blow never came. Instead, the beast flipped her over onto her front, gripping onto her smouldering raw flesh like a vice, and pinned her arms behind her back. The knee that hadn’t been stabbed pushed into the small of her back, locking her firmly in place.

“I have her,” the beast called out, faint undertones of pain prevalent in its gravelly voice. Too exhausted to struggle, Vayne relaxed against the floor. The dragon had left a trail of blood across the marble from the stab wound in its knee. Before passing out from her injury, one disturbing thought crossed her mind.

Demons and monsters alike bled ichor. This blood was red.

* * *

Blood caked the inside of Shyvana’s mouth from biting her cheek in an attempt to block out the searing wounds she had just acquired. The pressure she was putting on her impaled knee while keeping the attacker pinned down could have made a grown man weep, but she soldiered on until the hasted footsteps of palace guards echoed from the library into the night.

Garen led the small troop, sword at hand, prepared for a resisted arrest. “She’s unconscious. Must have hit her head too hard when pinning her,” Shyvana grunted, easing her grip.

“Or from the pain,” Garen added, jogging to Shyvana’s side to support her.

Hissing out a strained ‘thank you’, Shyvana looped her arm around Garen’s neck and kept her injured leg raised with some effort. Silver; she needed to clean out the wound fast – so long as any traces of the metal remained, she would never heal. “The blood is mine, though. All I did was punch her,” she said.

Frowning, Garen used his free arm to point to the assassin’s right side. “Those burn wounds weren’t your doing?”

Her eyes widened in shock as she noticed the mangled, blistering, semi-cauterised flesh of the attacker’s arm. _Did I do that?_

Fuck. She’d blacked out and lost control. Again. The adrenaline, the anger and the pain – gods, the pain – had flipped that ever prevalent switch in Shyvana’s brain: one that turned her into a merciless predator. Into her mother.

Shyvana let out a ragged breath, trying to form a coherent apology. But the only thoughts she could muster were _monster_, _killer_, _threat_. She was too caught up in her anxieties to notice the assassin’s unconscious body being dragged away by the palace guards, nor the orders Garen was giving them.

A brief eternity later, when the guards were out of sight, Garen reassuringly squeezed her side. “Listen, whether you blacked out or not, you subdued her. The prince is in a safe location now. You removed the threat, Shyvana. Take some deep breaths,” he murmured. She felt like throwing up. Because it was blind self-defence, not an act of valour for the prince.

Shakily, Shyvana took a step towards the balcony doors, narrowly avoiding the shattered glass. Garen followed through, alleviating as much of Shyvana’s body weight as possible. When she had finished choking down the bile threatening to spill from her throat, she filled Garen in. “Her dagger and ammunition were made of silver. It makes no difference to humans, but to monsters that shit’s lethal – we can’t heal if there’s a trace of the stuff in a wound. So…I think she was here for me.”

They continued trudging towards the library’s entrance. Garen asked, “Did she seem to be trained in combat?”

“Not by the military, but yeah, she manoeuvred smartly.”

“So we can assume her usual targets aren’t completely human either.”

“You think she’s some kind of monster hunter?” Garen nodded. “Makes sense. Silver’s a pretty soft metal, not to mention expensive. It’s only ever weaponised against demons and such.” It felt degrading for Shyvana to refer to herself aloud as a monster, yet oddly natural.

The halls were dark, and the faint sound of an etwahl could no longer be heard. Clearly the soiree had been cut short. Shyvana had asked Garen to take her to the dungeon where the woman was being held rather than the infirmary. “I have some questions for her – it’s personal,” she had said. Garen ordered the nearest guard they came across to have medics brought to the dungeons, and those were the last words uttered for the rest of the trek.

After fifteen arduous minutes, they reached the woman’s holding cell. Unlike the numerous other prisons and dungeons dotted about the Great City, the palace’s keep was well-lit and clean. The dungeon’s walls and floors were neatly constructed from the same white marble as the rest of the palace, and rather than being lit with rotting torches, small chandeliers lined the ceiling, providing a calming orange glow. A maid was already cleaning the dirty skid-marks left when the assassin was dragged to her cell, filling the room with the fragrant scent of soap. Only in Demacia would an extortionate sum of money and time be wasted on a block of cells for criminal filth.

Sprawled out on the white floor lay the lady of the hour herself, slowly stirring. Her strange bolt-launching contraption had been removed from her wrist, leaving her bloodied right arm bare. Her tunic had bunched up around her thighs, revealing an empty leather harness strapped to her left leg; Shyvana assumed she had carried more ammunition with her, but clearly the woman was unable to retrieve it during their brawl. A waterfall of tangled mahogany hair fanned around her head, matted with sweat and blood. That hair had saved Shyvana’s life.

To her surprise, the king was present in the dungeon, pacing impatiently in front of the iron bars. Very little was worth the bastard’s time – he remained absent during the banquet, despite his son’s words that he would be present – but clearly the thought of his only heir being jeopardised irked him.

Seated on a stool, Prince Jarvan turned to look at her and Garen when they entered. He abandoned his seat in an instant, hurrying to help Shyvana sit down. “Gods, Ana, your leg,” he muttered in disbelief.

Shyvana grunted as she collapsed gracelessly onto the stool. “As soon as it’s cleaned I’ll be fine, Jarvan. I heal quicker than humans do.” She made slow work of removing the plates of armour around her leg; the smallest force on her wound caused her immense pain. Thankfully, two medics from the palace infirmary arrived at Garen’s order seconds later, bringing a pail of water and disinfectant with some dressing gauze.

It took some willpower to ignore the male medic’s expression of disgust at the violet bumps on her skin.

As they tended to her wounds, the king stormed over to the cleaning maid and snatched the mop from her grasp. The girl immediately apologised, assuming she had offended him, and hurriedly left the dungeon, slipping on the sopping floor in her haste. Ignoring her, the king loudly dragged the end of the mop across the cell’s iron bars, bringing the assassin to consciousness.

“Stand, coward,” he spat at the woman, who struggled to support herself into a sitting position using her good arm.

“Father, look at her condition―” The prince tried to calm his father down, but he was wrapped up in his own rage.

“You sympathise with the bitch who made an attempt on your life, boy?” He discarded the mop to the ground. “I raised you to be a man.”

Shyvana felt the urge to interject, her instinct to protect the man she swore loyalty to burning in her mind. Undoubtedly, the moment the king had the woman fully conscious, he would issue a warrant for her execution, but Shyvana wanted answers. She needed the king to know his son was in no harm.

“With all due respect, your majesty,” she began, unflinching when his head whipped round to scowl at her, “The assassin did not come here to bring harm to Jarvan. She came here for me.”

Tutting, he rolled his eyes. “I do not expect _your kind_ to think with the rationale of us humans, general. You do not share the status of my son, and this woman would have no reason to want―”

“Your majesty, her weapons were made of silver. Silver has historically only be used to hunt demons and monsters – it stops our regenerative abilities from keeping us safe.” Shyvana’s tone was laced with anger at her king’s prejudice, but she kept her words respectful.

“It speaks the truth, your majesty,” came a deep, feminine voice, smooth and confident. Even the medics turned to look at the woman in the cell. An impertinent smirk was plastered on her face.

_It_.

The king spat at her. “You will speak only when spoken to,” he snapped.

_It_.

“Do you honestly deem it safe for such a dangerous beast to be near your son, your majesty?” The woman was trying to persuade the king, clearly picking up on how he addressed Shyvana earlier, the cunning bitch. “The thing breathes fire, by the gods―”

“I will not have filth insult my son’s judgement. Shyvana is a revered general, regardless of her affliction, and her position in this nation’s military makes your crime extremely severe, second to only treason.” The amber glow of the chandeliers only accentuated the redness of the king’s face from anger.

“You gave it a name?” the woman scoffed.

_It_.

Her blood started to boil.

Throwing propriety to the wind, Shyvana cut in.

“I was given this name by my father. Daughter of the mighty Yvva, Shyvana. I have worked for everything I am today, and I _refuse_ to sit back and take shit from a spoiled noblewoman who had one too many bedtime stories about dragons read to her as a child.” The hatred in the assassin’s eyes only fuelled her rant. “You’re no stranger to killing creatures of the night – I could tell from your movements. What gives you the right, huh? What gives you the _fucking right _to determine if a species is worth being brought to extinction by your silver? Answer me.”

“Temper, temper.”

“Answer me, you fucking coward.” She was shouting. Seething.

But the woman simply smiled.

“I was sixteen when a demon orphaned me. Your kinds are incapable of feeling anything but twisted pleasure. That night I took a vow – as the last remaining member of the Vayne household, I would show no mercy to creatures that are neither human nor animal.” Her bitter smile morphed into a scowl.

“The thought of a monster having a morsel of power in this nation makes me sick.”

Shyvana guffawed. The woman was blinded by vengeance.

Before she could retaliate, the prince stepped in, ever the mediator. He signalled for Shyvana to be at ease, and she let out an aggravated sigh. Jarvan knelt down to the Vayne woman’s level. “Shauna, correct?”

“Correct.”

“I have heard of the work you do. While you harbour hatred for your parents’ murderer, you hunt monsters to protect people. I… I can see why someone of your affliction would want my general dead.”

“I’m the only Demacian with the guts to hunt those beasts. Go ahead, have me executed. But they’ll be running rampant within weeks, and that thing―” Vayne pointed at Shyvana with her uninjured arm, “will eat you alive the moment it has the chance.”

Prince Jarvan stood after a moment of contemplation, turning to the medics. “Once you have finished tending to Shyvana, dress Shauna Vayne’s arm and coat it with a salve.” The king laughed at his son before storming out of the dungeon, unimpressed with his decision. Jarvan payed no notice.

“Garen, I would like a squadron to be dispersed throughout Demacia, with three soldiers in the outskirts for every one in the city. Tell them to monitor any and all deaths that have gruesome or unnatural causes.” Jarvan looked Vayne dead in the eye. “In two weeks, we’ll reconvene. If there’s a substantial increase in strange deaths, your life will be spared.”


	4. Probation

Strangely, Vayne’s dungeon experience had not been unpleasant. Far from it, in fact. Medics visited her daily to redress her arm, the food she was given had been more than edible – hell, she had even been escorted to a proper washroom whenever she needed to relieve herself. Of course, she found herself incredibly bored, but she managed to make small conversation with the palace guards and staff that watched over her; their mutual mistrust of a certain draconic general helped Vayne keep peace with the guards. One of them even slipped her some liquor.

Still, though, she had plenty of time to think. Most of it she spent mulling over every possible way she could have killed the general, but her thoughts tended to drift to more disturbing places. Her parents’ corpses, her former teacher, the dragon’s _red_ blood…

Nine days into her imprisonment, she finally heard the man to whom her life was at mercy. The marble dungeon walls slightly muffled the prince’s deep voice, but Vayne could hear him well, and knew he wasn’t alone.

“Two families massacred, four children disembowelled, and it’s been what, a week? All over three neighbouring villages, where we have several soldiers stationed. This is ludicrous, Garen.”

“You’re positive this is the work of demons?”

“Oh, spare me, who else would want to eat the organs of schoolchildren?”

A pregnant pause.

“So you want to let the Vayne woman roam the streets again, hunting as she pleases.”

“We don’t have a choice, Garen. She managed to keep this…onslaught under control before. My country is in danger.”

“Then we train the Vanguard. Arm us with silver, station us around the outskirts. I’ll ask Lux to dig up some old books on demonology so we know what to expect if―”

“Do you even know how to approach those creatures? It’ll take far too long to train the Vanguard when we already have an expert in our grasp.”

“We both know the first thing she’ll do when she has the chance is try to kill Shyvana. The King will undoubtedly warrant her execution, and you know that will only cause a public outcry in her defence because Shyvana’s dragonborn. Then we have a revolution to deal with.”

“Shyvana can take care of herself, Garen. She’s a dragon, by the gods.”

“And if she blacks out again? Loses control over herself and ends up torching a whole village? She had no recollection of burning Vayne’s arm, Jarvan. If her temper blows, more than her own life is at stake.”

That certainly piqued her interest. She had never had an opportunity to exploit her prey’s emotional vulnerabilities before, mainly because, well, they’d never had any. If this beast tends to boil over, that opened up a gateway of opportunities to strike.

“Enough. I have made my decision.”

The doors creaked open.

Careful not to strain her injured arm, Vayne stood up and made her way towards the cell’s bars. She cocked her eyebrows at the prince and the Crownguard. “Must be a real shit-show out there for you to be here five days ahead of schedule, your Highness.” _Play it cool, you heard nothing a minute ago._

Garen Crownguard was the first to enter, fully armed with his jaw clenched angrily. “You will not address his Highness with such vulgarities.” She simply rolled her eyes.

Jarvan sighed as he trailed behind Garen, poised yet irritated. He turned to his subordinate, exhaling briefly. “I would like to keep hostilities to a minimum. If that will be an issue I suggest you show yourself out.” The prince’s voice was calm but grave. Garen kept his mouth shut.

“Good dog,” she mused, smirking at the glare she received from the Crownguard.

Ever the diplomat, Jarvan ignored her comment, and dragged a stool to the front of her cell. The shrill clinking of his armour was the loudest sound Vayne had heard in days. She winced as the sound reverberated through her skull.

Jarvan cleared his throat. “I admit, I had not anticipated thirteen deaths to occur within the two weeks. Nine of which being children, four of whom were…cannibalised.” There was horror laced in his voice.

“Did the demon eat all of the children’s bodies, or just the guts?”

He seemed taken aback. “I hardly see how those details benefit anyone―”

“It matters alright. Different beasts crave different things. I’m gonna need all the information I can get if I’m hunting them.” Vayne stepped closer to the bars. She dragged her fingernail over them, a confident smile plastered on her face. “Which I’m guessing you’re here to ask me to do.” Jarvan nodded. “What’s the catch?”

“Of course, don’t expect to be allowed to roam free, Miss Vayne. You committed a serious offence. Heavy probation is in order.”

_Great_.

“By the end of today, we will have a remote location prepared for you to stay in. You will be under twenty-four-hour watch by a team of guards, who will be in possession of your weapons at all times. They will accompany you when you leave to hunt, otherwise you will be house-bound.”

Groaning, Vayne sat back down, bracing herself on the floor with her good arm. “Is this the part where I thank you for your boundless generosity?”

Garen tutted from behind the prince, evidently biting his tongue from reprimanding her. Jarvan, however, looked indifferent.

“This is as much liberty I can offer you for the next six months. You will be free to do whatever you wish inside the comforts of your new home.”

“Short prison sentence, huh?” She rubbed her temple, dreading how boring the next half-year would be. “But this won’t work.”

Garen guffawed. “You aren’t in a position to negotiate this, you arrogant―”

Vayne ignored him completely. “First I’m going to need to get supplies from time to time. Chemicals, ammunition, et cetera. Stuff your guards won’t know where to find.”

Jarvan nodded. “That won’t be an issue, the guards will escort you to wherever you need for your hunts, before and during.”

“About that,” Vayne playfully started, knowing she’d get her way with this one. The prince was a pushover. “I appreciate stealth isn’t your forte, what with that ghastly gold armour your parade about―”

“Jarvan, you deserve more respect―”

“Pipe down, doggy. My point is, my prey won’t appreciate having a group of people around. It’s difficult to snipe a target when there’s a team of monkeys clunking around in their armour behind you. And they’re not stupid – most are foolish enough to think they can take on me alone, but they know their odds against a group.”

“Then I’ll escort her.”

All three turned towards the dungeon entrance, where the lilac-skinned freak stood in its gaudy red armour. It stalked towards Vayne’s cell with a slight limp from their scuffle the week before. Garen began to interject, but the she-demon stopped him.

“She’s a smart girl, she won’t try to attack me again. Not after I roasted her arm.” As soon as it was close enough, Vayne spat at the beast. Annoyingly, the glob landed just shy of its feet. The bastard had the nerve to roll its eyes.

“And she’s right. One person is easier to manage than five or six. I can apprehend her if she tries anything, and I’ll be less useless than some untrained humans.”

“You’re clearly the runt of the nest. Most scum would have fully healed from a little stab wound by now.” She laughed breathily at the pathetic creature before her. “It’s hilarious, you’re so _weak_ compared to some of the monsters I’ve taken down.”

“Yet here you are, practically one-armed.” It turned to the prince. “I’m joining the team. That’s final.” Then it left. Garen followed.

After a moment, Jarvan stood from his stool. “Shyvana _will_ be your escort on hunts. The terms of your release are final. When the house has been prepared, you will be transferred.”

When he left, she fell back onto the marble floor, plotting a thousand ways to separate the dragon’s head from its body.

* * *

Jarvan’s study was warmly lit, cloaked in an orange glow, yet the atmosphere was cold. Tensions had risen high in the dungeons that morning. Ordinarily, Garen and Shyvana would work in the prince’s office in good spirit, sharing jokes and laughs; all they had in common now was a pot of cold tea.

Slumped in a comfortable armchair, Shyvana skimmed through the heap of demonology books that Garen had asked his sister to procure. Her legs hung over side, keeping pressure off her recovering knee. She balanced her cup of tea on her abdomen – the trio had long since removed their armour – occasionally reaching over to take a sip. All those hours of reading had caused the words on the pages to blur together. She was bored.

Closing her current encyclopaedia on shapeshifters, she glanced over at Garen, who sat staring at a map of the Demacian outskirts on the floor. From what she had learned about the murders, better reinforcements were needed, thus the Vanguard would be called upon. He reached over to a scrap of parchment to write something down then promptly crossed it out. Sighing, he straightened his posture and stretched, nearly knocking over his bottle of ink.

“What’s wrong?” Shyvana asked, cutting the silence. Even Jarvan looked up from his accounts.

Garen just shook his head. “Nothing, really. Just wondering whether to assign Fiora to Vaskasia, since that’s where the organ-eater struck. But I don’t suppose it matters who is stationed where.” He stood up, cracking his neck. “People will die regardless, since the Vayne woman is apparently the only person in Valoran who can deal with this issue.” Bitterness seeped through his voice; Jarvan set his quill down in concern. Garen made his way to the study door.

Shyvana furrowed her eyebrows and asked where he was going. “To get more tea,” he replied.

“I can warm up the pot we have, you don’t have to―”

“Thank you, Ana, but I could use the walk.” She nodded and gave a half smile as he left the room.

Immediately, she swivelled around towards the prince, spilling her tea on her undershirt. “You really pissed him off, huh,” she cocked her eyebrows at Jarvan as he sighed.

“He’s concerned about your safety. Even before you offered to step in as Shauna Vayne’s chaperone, he was convinced the first thing she’d try to do is kill you.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m worried too.”

She chuckled. “All the two of you do is worry. It’s not like there was an alternative option.” Her wet vest clung to her stomach uncomfortably. “Don’t suppose you keep a spare shirt in your office?” He opened a drawer of his desk and tossed the garment at her.

“Garen did mention having the Vanguard trained to combat monsters in place of releasing her, but only the gods know how long that could take,” Jarvan mentioned, turning around so Shyvana could change. She stripped off her vest, dabbing her abdomen dry with the clean parts of the undergarment, before slipping on Jarvan’s plain cotton shirt.

“That’s a good idea. Maybe the Raptors instead, since they’re used to dealing with whatever creatures terrorise High Silvermere. Do they know about this?”

“Commander Quinn was sent to Vaskasia to alert the soldiers about this ordeal. I requested she fills in her comrades when she returns.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to have them trained. They’re disciplined, it shouldn’t take long.”

“I agree, but they won’t have a clue on where to find these demons. There’s only one person who does, that we know of at least.” He cracked his knuckles and rose from his chair. “Garen’s probably offended that I’m placing the safety of this country in an assassin’s hands.”

Shyvana walked over and sat on his desk, shaking her head. “He’s not offended, he’s scared. If Vayne is stationed in Vaskasia, it’ll take a while for us to reach central Demacia. Anyone outside of her immediate area is at risk.” She heated up Jarvan’s half-drunk cup of tea and handed it to him. “Luxanna is living in the capitol, right? That’s pretty far from the coast. And the Noxian border is even further afield.”

He furrowed his brow. “Why would the Noxian border matter?”

She laughed and wriggled her eyebrows. “Where else would he meet his Noxian lady-love?”

“What?”

_Ah._ “Look, he’s just worried and it’s eating away at him. I’ll let you boys talk about his woman some other time. He can tell you all about her, you can tell him about how you want to bed his sister―”

The study door swung open. Garen carried a fresh teapot with three cups on a tray, appearing calmer than when he left. The scent of chamomile filled the room. He gave a confused look to Shyvana, who just pointed at the upside-down teacup by the armchair.

As he went to set the tray down on the desk, Jarvan spoke up.

“Garen, I’d like to apologise for being so dismissive earlier.”

Garen took a deep breath. “No need, I was out of my head. My composure slipped.”

“We’re all concerned about this situation. You have loved ones far away, I understand your worries. And I was too quick to reject your idea of training more soldiers to hunt demons – Ana suggested the Raptors, since they have some experience.” Garen smiled at that. Shyvana took a mocking bow, earning a chuckle.

“That’ll certainly alleviate some pressure from the rest of Demacia,” he said, before pouring the chamomile into the cups. “Try not to spill it, Ana.”

“Fuck off, Crownguard,” she laughed, taking small sip. It’ll be her last good cup for six months.

Garen blew on the beverage before doing the same. His laughter at her antics turned into a solemn smile. “The transfer will take place in two hours. I suggest you allow thirty minutes to pack.”

Her stomach sank. This was her home, and she would sorely miss it.

Might as well make these last few minutes memorable.

“She’s an assassin, by the way.” Shyvana burst out laughing when Jarvan spat out his tea. When realisation dawned upon Garen, she fell off the desk after seeing the expression on his face.

Jarvan squinted in shock. “A Noxian assassin?”

Garen glared at Shyvana, who simply stared back with a cheeky smirk. “You know what, I’ll be glad to see you gone,” he joked. She stuck her tongue out in retort.

This would be her last moment of joy for a long, long time.


	5. Humanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this chapter may be triggering, particularly for victims of abuse. Discretion is advised.

A warm glow washed over the meadow in Vaskasia as the sun hung low in the sky. The viridian grass provided a pleasant coolness beneath Shyvana’s feet. The afternoon sun illuminated the pages of the journal on shapeshifters she was desperately trying to make sense of outside her tent. It didn’t help that the off-duty guards lounging outside their temporary barracks could be heard, clear as crystal, mocking her.

Out of the twenty six other soldiers assigned to watch over Shauna Vayne, there were two, maybe three that tolerated Shyvana. Annoyingly, none of them were the two field medics assigned to this mission. If she got injured, she was at their mercy. Since she was in charge of this operation, she dreaded having to manage the bigoted majority of her squad.

At least, unlike them, she had her own tent. One perk of being in charge: privacy – a chance to escape their incessant gossiping.

When one of her lovely subordinates spat at her, Shyvana snapped the journal shut. Her brain was far too distracted to decipher the ridiculous cursive the demonologist wrote in. Without sparing the bastard soldiers a glance, she dipped back into her tent to grab the murder reports, and strode towards the quaint cottage in which Vayne was residing.

The two guards she had stationed outside the front door stepped aside to allow her entrance. One of them – Arnold, a pleasant acquaintance – opened the door for her, offering her an apologetic smile, clearly having witnessed his comrades’ display by her tent. She thanked him, reminding herself to always give him the easier shifts.

She had to admit, she was slightly jealous of her prisoner’s living quarters. Sheepskin rugs lay across the freshly-polished wooden floors, crocheted blankets were draped across the comfortable lounge furniture. A small hearth stood unlit by the wall, surrounded by pre-cut firewood for the colder months. To the left of the front door, a stone archway led to a kitchenette, complete with a kettle and a small dining table. The remainder of the cottage lay behind a closed door, guarded by two more soldiers.

Before long, the kettle began to whistle. Shyvana frowned, thinking back to her evening with Jarvan and Garen the day before. Not even a day into this ordeal and she was feeling homesick. Thankfully, as the whistling grew louder and painfully shrill, she was yanked away from her thoughts.

When the white noise stopped, the door leading to presumably the bedchamber slammed open, the doorknob nailing one of the guards in the stomach. She bit her cheek to stop herself from laughing.

Vayne made her way to the kitchen, gritting her teeth when she saw Shyvana leaning against the archway.

“What are you doing in my house?” she snapped, manoeuvring around Shyvana to get to the kettle.

“Do you need help pouring that―”

“Don’t you _dare_ insult me. This whole situation is enough of an insult. Six damned guards around at all times.” She used her good hand to pour the water into a teapot, allowing the smell of chamomile to fill the room.

Shyvana decided not to irk her while holding a pot of boiling water.

While the tea was brewing, she placed the shapeshifter journal and reports on the dining table and took a seat. “How are you settling in?”

“Why do you care?”

“You’re right. I don’t.” Shyvana propped her feet up on another chair. “Take a seat when you’ve poured your tea. We need to talk.”

She heard an aggravated sigh and the splash of water into a cup. Vayne spun on her heel before storming towards the table. She set her teacup down and kicked the other chair from underneath Shyvana’s feet.

“Humans have manners.”

“Well, I’m not a human, am I?” Vayne scowled and waved her hand as if to say ‘go on’. “I’ve been reading these old books to try and understand what killed those four children just outside of this cottage.”

“Let me guess, you can’t read? How primitive.”

“Of course I can read. But this journal―” She slaps the leather-bound book in front of her. “―is written in ye olde chicken scratch.”

Vayne spins the journal around and, with effort, examines the cover. “Shapeshifters, huh?”

“I figured something would have to appear harmless to get the kids alone with them. But to be honest? I have no fucking clue. What kind of sick creature would want to eat young children?”

“That depends on what was eaten.” She takes a sip of tea. “Skin? Eyes? Internal organs?” Her cool, unbothered tone made Shyvana’s stomach churn.

“Internal organs, yeah. The kids were all disembowelled.”

“Any organs in particular?”

Shyvana glosses over the written reports of the incidents. “…The liver. And pancreas, and stomach.”

“Shit. They hunt in packs.”

“What do?”

“Forest anthropophagi. They’re an evolved descendent of the Wendigo. Most of the time they hibernate. Halfway through each moon cycle and on full moons, they transform into thickets of bush, wait for unsuspecting children to pass through the forest, and then slice them open alive. They take the organs with the most nutrients, dump the bodies and relocate for more food.”

“How many per pack?”

“No more than six. Always a multiple of two or three. There were four children, correct?” Shyvana nodded. “That’s a small turnover. I’m guessing there were two demons, which makes things easier for me.”

“For _us_. There’s no way you can fight in your condition. I’ll be the one holding the silver.”

“Then I suggest you learn how to shoot a crossbow.” Vayne smirks wickedly. “The next full moon is tomorrow. That gives you just over a day. Now, get out of my house. I cook in here, and my kitchen reeks of dragon.”

Before gathering her papers and leaving, Shyvana decided to make a peace offering. “Make a list of things you want to eat, read, drink, whatever. I’ll have someone collect it each week. If it makes you less unpleasant than you are now, I’m sure it can be arranged.”

She knocked from inside the front door, signalling for the guards to let her out. Arnold, ever polite, asked how the conversation went. A simple grimace spoke a thousand words. He awkwardly smiled and bid her a good afternoon. She turned to leave, but then swivelled back around, remembering the end of the conversation with Vayne.

“I don’t suppose you know how to shoot a crossbow…?”

* * *

This would be difficult.

Vayne stared at the blank parchment in front of her, twiddling her quill between her fingers. The evening sun kissed the horizon, leaving her barely a day to plan the attack on the anthropophagi. She had no idea what weapons would be at her – at the dragon’s – disposal; her home was too far from Vaskasia to traverse on horseback before tomorrow sunset, so they would have to source something temporary from a nearby blacksmith. Every smith would sell bolts, but silver? A wager.

That, and she couldn’t exactly wield a crossbow herself. She didn’t trust her left arm’s aim nearly as much as her right. But to enter the demons’ territory unarmed would be suicide.

_Fuck_.

“Okay, five bolts, two per target and one spare,” she muttered, tallying the bolts on the parchment. “Shit, that’s assuming the dragon knows how to shoot.” Teeth gritted, she added another five to the tally. Then two more, just in case. “Right, dragon dealt with. If that doesn’t work, then…it’ll just torch the demons. Sure.” Her pot of tea had gone cold, the last shred of stress relief she had gone.

Now for herself. Something easy to wield, something that would keep her alive.

A spear would be useless: the demon could simply morph around it, keeping her wedged in place. Daggers were unreliable, far too risky given her condition. She had no clue how to use a sword. Fuck.

Groaning, Vayne scrunched the parchment into a ball and threw it at the sink. She’d just have to rely on the temperamental dragon.

The shuffle of guards snapped her out of her exhausted anger. _I guess their shift is up. Where did I put that list_, she pondered, eyes frantically scouring the kitchen for the list of general commodities the dragon suggested she procure. When the front door to the cottage creaked open, she called out, “Wait!”

One of the guards stopped and turned (the other she had slammed a door into – in hindsight, not the smartest move). After a few more seconds of fumbling, she found the list. She grabbed it, hastily scribbling a ‘leave at dawn’ onto the corner, and handed the creased piece of parchment to the guard.

“Give this to the dragon. General.” The guard raised an eyebrow. She cursed internally before adding, “Please.” He shrugged and nodded. As he left, two new guards entered, their droopy eyes _clearly_ gleaming with excitement for their shift.

_Gods, I need a bath. My shoulders are killing me_.

She slipped past the guards into her bedchamber and trudged towards the attached bathroom. Locking the door, she turned on the bathtub faucet, sighing as the room slowly began to fill with steam. Thankfully, she had been allowed to wash before the journey to Vaskasia, so she was in no rush to scrub. Vayne lazily stripped down until she was bare, eased herself into the tub and reclined against the enamel. The water creeped up to her neck, drowning her hair, the thickness of her locks seemingly lulling her deeper.

Within minutes, she had drifted off.

* * *

Dreamless. The first dreamless sleep Vayne had the pleasure of having in weeks. As she stirred in the lukewarm water, she wished she could drift off once more.

With a stretch, she pulled the plug, sleepily entranced by the _glug, glug, glug_ of the water disappearing down the drain. She swept her hair over to her right and used her good arm to wring out the water.

Drowsily, she clad herself in a towel before entering her bedchamber. She adorned the nightgown that had been provided amongst other clothes, relieved it was made from cotton and not some gaudy silk. Yawning, she began to brush her wet hair, when the muffled voices of the guards caught her attention.

“…since the divorce.”

Curious, she silently creeped over to the door, resting her ear against the splintering oak.

“Been ‘alf a year since then, eh? Six months without the touch of a woman.” This voice was deeper and gruffer than the former.

“And I have to sit through another bleeding six months now. Bloody Crownguard couldn’t have stationed someone else.”

“I’m sure you could sneak off to a whorehouse. We’ve got yer covered, mate.”

“No, you never know what kinds of diseases they carry. Syphilis isn’t attractive.” _Charming_.

A pregnant pause.

“I bet missy’s never had an infection like that. Noblewoman and all that. Prob’ly ain’t never been touched by a bloke.”

“Ha, she isn’t all that noble. She’d been hanging about the poorer parts before she got arrested.”

“Still, prob’ly a good lay. Bet she’s a screamer.”

Vayne felt sick.

“Gods, I’m not gonna cope these next six months.”

“Well, give me a small cut of yer wages and I’ll hold ‘er down for you.”

Her heart threatened to burst out of her chest.

“No one’d believe ‘er if she told. She’s apparently got a knack for dramatics.”

Frantically, she scanned the bedroom for something to arm herself with. Her pulse was deafening.

“A quarter. That good enough for you?”

“Much obliged, mate.”

Swearing, Vayne dashed towards the lamp on the table. The doors swung open.

Sick, perverse grins were plastered across the guards’ faces. The heavier built guard began to unsheathe his sword, slamming the doors shut behind them, while the shorter one unbuckled his loin guard. She knew her lamp stood no chance against a sword.

Jaw clenched with determination, she tumbled across the bed to the other side by the window. She smashed the lamp against the glass with all the strength she had, hoping the loud smashing ceramic would elicit an outside guard’s attention, in the process leaving herself utterly cornered.

The heavier guard let out a guttural laugh. “That weren’t very smart now, was it, darlin’?” Sweat from her palms mixed with the blood from the remaining ceramic that cut into her skin.

Abruptly, the taller one lunged across towards her, gripping her burnt arm. Vayne howled in agony as the newly scabbed-over flesh began to crack. The guard contorted her arm into a paralysing position, stopping her from moving her torso. Panicked, she kicked her legs without abandon, hoping to ease his grip, but it only twisted her further. He held her firmly in place on the floor, his sword pressed to her neck.

_Don’t cry. You can’t cry._

The adrenaline kicked in harder as she heard a second blade being drawn and the thud of heavy clothing against the floor. Vayne grunted in frustration as the blade sliced open her nightgown, scraping the skin on her back in the process, running over old scars in the process. With a violent tear, she was exposed.

Surrendering, Vayne desperately tried to dissociate. She thought of everything from her first kill, to her parents’ remains scattered about the manor, to the wicked smile on the demon who stole her old life. Anything but the present. Anything but the sudden sting of her rapist’s hand on her buttocks. Anything but how this sick, sick fuck was dragging out this moment, cracking her resolve.

Bile threatened to spill past her gullet. He smacked her other cheek, and then forced her legs apart with his knee.

All that came next was the shriek of horror from the guard holding her down, the clatter of his sword to the floor, and the spilling of warm liquid down her back.

The other guard’s grip released completely, allowing Vayne to twist onto her back.

General Shyvana stood, hunched over and fuming, with her assaulter’s throat between her teeth, blood dripping down her jaw. The man lay with a gaping hole where his Adam’s apple should have been, shocked, gasping desperately for air. The dragon’s amber eyes were borderline aflame, the ridges on her flesh pulsing.

She tore the organ from her teeth with a clawed hand, swallowing the rest of the blood and tissue. Then, she looked directly into the alive guard’s eyes. Her command was simple, her voice raw and inhuman.

“Run.”

He scrambled away, tripping over the bed in the process. Piss dripped down his trouser leg onto the floor as he whimpered pathetically. He banged on the front entrance rapidly, falling on his face when the door opened, before crawling away.

Utterly defeated, Vayne leaned against her bed, not bothering with preserving her modesty. The general, however, handed her the towel she had cast away earlier. Blood was spattered over the cream cloth. Solemnly, she took it.

Without the unadulterated fury from seconds ago, the general offered her a hand. “Where are you hurt?” Vayne refused to look her in the eye.

“_Leave_.”

She couldn’t muster any anger. All her dignity had left her. The damage had been done. Wordlessly yet hesitantly, the general left the cottage, closing the front door shut behind her.

Her physical weakness was difficult enough to deal with. The wounds from the assault would heal soon enough. But her mental had warped. Drastically.

Nothing, _nothing_ had prepared her to view Shyvana not as a monster, but as a woman.


End file.
